Weeping Violins
by IreneNorton
Summary: Sherlock Holmes. A brilliant genius, a guardian of justice. And also a terribly terribly gay man who happens to be insanely in love with his fellow lodger but incapable of doing anything about it.  Summary suck, there is more to it. Please just read.
1. Peeking through the Golden gates

**Chapter one – Peeking Through The Golden Gates**

The Doctor was sitting in his favorite armchair by the fire, dozing with a tired but peaceful expression across his benevolent features. He looked so beautiful, angelic almost. With the fire so close to his already golden skin, it created a wonderful glowing aura around his frighteningly handsome body and deep brown locks. Although to me he will always be divine no matter the setting. I myself was hovering by the doorway like some sort of malicious vampire, silent and unmoving. I had just returned home, I was gruesomely tired but at that moment I was satisfied with just staring at the bliss before me, like a condemned soul gazing longingly at the golden gates of paradise. That was what it felt like, what it always felt like, to be in same room as Dr. John Watson. I knew he would forever be out of my reach however; the attributes I love him fervently for, were the ones that made it impossible for me to have him. My soul is not beautiful like his. I do not deserve him; I am clever enough to know that much.

I moved from the doorway and into the sitting room, still quiet in an attempt not to wake its sleeping occupant.

But when I stopped and stood in front of him, he awoke; the war had made him almost as light a sleeper as I am. He looked at me with hazy blue eyes; they were so bright that I am positive that if he wanted to, Watson could banish the night from the world just by letting it bask in the glow of those glorious cerulean orbs. His soul is shining through his eyes, which is why they are so radiant.

I would possibly write an ode about those eyes, if I was not so sure I would never be able to do them justice. Words can only say so much after all.

"My apologies for waking you Watson, but sleeping in that position will surely make your muscles ache in the morning," I said in my usual nonchalant manner, voice calm and jovial.

Watson has credited me to be a fine actor. If only he knew how much practice I get on a daily basis, he might not be so eager to congratulate me.

The Doctor stretched his limbs and stifled a yawn. I sat down in the armchair next to him. To keep myself from staring at him –a pastime I would gladly spend eternity refining- I picked up a cigarette from the table and looked around for a matchbox to light it with.

Watson stirred momentarily, pulled his own matchbox from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to me. When I reached out for it, our fingers met briefly and a shiver ran down my spine and caused tingling goose bumps to creep over my skin. It is a constant surprise to me how something as trivial as a minute touch or a tiny smile from The Doctor can send my heart racing to the point that I actually fear for my health. It is a miracle of miracles that he does not detect my heartbeat galloping away when we are sitting so close together.

I thanked him and lit my cigarette, congratulating myself for being able to keep my hands steady while doing so.

In moments like these, I cannot make a distinction between Heaven and Hell. It is the most bittersweet feeling in the world; having the one person you love more than life itself beside you, but not actually _having_ him. We sat there in silence, like so many times before.

I did not say anything. The words I truly wanted to speak I have banished from my tongue forever and therefore all other subjects often seem to be meaningless.

Watson yawned again after some minutes, not bothering to stifle it this time; it was well past midnight after all.

"I think I'll hop off to bed, Holmes. Do you have any plans for tomorrow?"

I smiled thinly, that was Watson's way of asking me if I was to wake him up at dawn and drag him out to the country in pursuit of some ghastly villain. It has happened before and, I hope, it will happen again. The man looks absolutely adorable when he is awakened abruptly. His hair would be tousled; his moustache magnificently scruffy and his expression when he is annoyed but too tired to argue with me is one of those observations of a fact that can make me smile like an infatuated barmaid just by thinking about it. An alarming number of things involving the doctor have that effect on me I might add. But this night he was looking awfully tired and I was not currently employed by a client so I answered him truthfully.

"No, nothing of importance my dear fellow. I might begin to sort out those documents about the McLaggan gang but if I know myself, and I am confident that I do, I am inclined to doubt it."

This jovial remark earned me an amused chuckle and for a moment I was the happiest man in London.

He smiled tiredly and put his hands on his upper thighs. The urge to lay my own hands above them was stubbornly ignored, as always. Then he stood up, his frame wracked with exhaustion and he flinched when he put his weight on his injured leg. But of course he would never in his life even think of complaining.

I bid him goodnight, staying in my armchair while watching him going up the stairs to his bedroom.

What wouldn't I give to be able to follow him up those stairs?

Again I feel the restrictions that come with words.

The longing. The intense, heartbreaking, atrocious longing! I had to dig my nails into the fabric of my chair to stop myself from moaning in despair of it all.

I want him! I want him so much I can't even begin to describe the marvelous, amazing and at the same time excruciating emotions that flow through me every time he enters my view. Or every time he leaves it for that matter.

But he will never be mine. He will always be the angel soaring above and I will always be the condemned soul looking up at him from my place in the boat traveling down the river Styx.

John Watson is a beautiful human being; he is the opposite of me. The most prominent difference is that he is not a depraved abomination to society. He also cares immensely for everyone, even absolute strangers. I remember once we walked together through the streets of London, it was winter and the cold was extraordinarily biting that evening.

When we walked through Hyde Park he gave his coat away to a young beggar girl, the one with the big pockets and comfortable collar, his favorite coat. Just like that, as if it was the most customary thing to do in the world. As if he did not know how rare and precious that sort of kindness is. The girl took the coat, too stunned for words. At least she was a person who recognized pure hearted people when she saw them. That girl would most likely have died that winter if it hadn't been for Dr. John Watson and still he did not even require a thank you from the girl. It boggles the mind how such a gentle soul ever survived a war, illness, the death of a brother and then living with me. One of the few mysteries I fear I will never solve.

I see beggars and less fortunate people than myself on the streets every day but I accept that I cannot help them all and this does not pain me in the least.

But it pains Watson.

I am not saying he is naive, he knows as well as I do that he cannot help them all, that he cannot ease everyone's pain.

But he wants to. He wants to help them with his whole being and sometimes he himself hurts because he knows he cannot do this. I have seen it myself, when he comes home completely devastated after failing to help someone, a patient or a friend or just a stranger, it doesn't matter. His grievous expression is always the same. And yet, despite this pain he keeps doing it, he keeps his heart open for people to rip and thrash it however they please as long as he can at least help some.

I tell you, God must have misplaced one of his most precious angels.

It is ironic, I find, that I use theological analogies when I try to explain the feelings I experience in the vicinity of my fellow lodger, since according to Church of England I should not be permitted to be alive. I have always been the way I am, a monstrosity in the eyes of the public as it were. I am breaking the law just by breathing; it is quite a difficult fact to deal with.

If I could change what I am, I would, I have tried on many occasions. All failed endeavors however. It is not easily explained; how it feels living with the knowledge that if you tried to be completely honest with someone you might end up in a jail cell, or worse.

Always hiding, always lying. It is as natural to me as honesty is to The Doctor.

I sat there by the fire, bothering to add fuel to it. When the night finally absorbed our sitting room I found myself dozing off. It had been a long day after all and as so many times before, I hadn't noticed how truly tired I had become. I felt cold but did not reach for a blanket.

I knew that only one thing could warm my icy bones and that was the one thing I would always refuse myself. I will never contaminate Watson; I will not ruin this pure being even if it will ruin me in the process.

Sometimes I can get angry with him, making me live in both Heaven and Hell at the same time and for being so damn flawless.

But then I remember the feeling I get when he laughs at one of my arrogant comments. When he runs his hand through his hair after a tiring day, making it stick up in odd places. Or when his already brilliant eyes light up with curiosity at one of my deductions and when his lips curl in amusement when I explain them to him.

It is not Heaven, but it is as close as I will ever get to it.


	2. Something Rotten in Denmark

**Chapter Two – Something rotten in Denmark**

I awoke the next morning with a dreadful throbbing in my neck since I had not heeded my own advice regarding not falling asleep in an armchair. The sun was up and pale trickles of sunlight seeped through our windows, forcing me to squint as I dared to open my eyes.

Watson was already up, or at least had been at some point during the night. I could tell since a warming blanket rested upon my figure -Damn the man twice over for giving me mental images of him leaning over me to place the blanket over my shoulders- and as I rubbed the back of my neck to ease the tension in my muscles I glanced at the clock to confirm my already established suspicion; it was almost past noon. I confess I was somewhat irked by the fact that I had not been roused by my companion when he must have walked about in the sitting room. An underestimation of my own exhaustion from last night must have been made.

I had thought my stamina, and my own awareness of my stamina for that matter, had been in better shape than that. Such blunders were not to be tolerated, my body must keep up with my mind or else it is useless.

"Ah, you are finally awake. Good morning, Holmes," said a chirpy voice from somewhere to my right.

Immediately I lost my train of thought; a damned distraction is what he is.

I did not reply to my companion's lively greeting, I merely tugged the blanket closer to my body and tried to bury myself in the armchair.

My frame of mind in the morning was somewhat poisonous I knew; Watson had been kind enough to point this out to me. Several times.

Watson chose this time to walk into my line of view with a spry stance that told me that he had been up for some time; there were no lingering traces of sleep over his figure. He had been out of the flat too, there was a thin layer of dust on the lower part of the man's trousers and a slight redness in his palms informed me that he had been carrying something heavy. The rigidity of Watson's shoulder confirmed my deduction; the weighty burden had upset his war injury.

"Shopping, Watson?" I murmured as I closed my eyes once again, the world was still too bright for my liking.

"No, I just picked up a few things." I could practically _hear _the mischievous smile; the man was up to something.

"What things?" I asked, maybe with a hint of suspicion.

"Ordinary things."

The innocence in his voice would make a five year old envious. But I persisted, a miniature smirk had somehow found it's was to my lips.

"How ordinary?"

"Shall I answer on a scale from one to five or should we call in an expert on the matter?"

"Possibly. Or you could just tell me what these mysterious items are and I will be able to classify them myself."

"I could, but that would take all the fun away, won't it?"

My smirk evolved into a smile and I defied the sunlight by opening my eyes to look at my companion. He was sitting down by the table now, looking at me with eyes brighter than the sun.

Damn the man.

We would have continued our verbal sparring match if the door to our own rooms hadn't been almost broken off its hinges by a wiry young man who was, something not even a Yarder could miss, in great distress.

I sat up straight instantly, all fatigue gone in a flash. I had been without a case for far too long and in its absence my mind frayed to far more painful quarters. Last night was an excellent example of that. I needed a distraction and this man looked ready enough to give me one.

"Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he asked with wild eyes, not bothering with polite greetings.

Thank God for that.

His accent was most peculiar; he was a Dane if I was not entirely mistaken.

"I am Sherlock Holmes, yes." I replied as I tossed the blanket aside. Maybe a tad dramatically but I paid it no mind at the time.

"Please, you must come right away. There is no time to be lost, there is a cab waiting outside ready to take us where we need to go. My father has money, you will be richly rewarded but only if you come straight away."

As he said this, our strange visitor wrung his hands anxiously and his eyes darted from me, to Watson, to the floor, back to me and then to the window. Whatever this young man had experienced, it had upset him terribly.

I did not like being kept in the dark, accepting a case with no information beforehand. But I was hardly short on information from this lad.

His trousers were wet, but he did not smell of salt water. It was obvious that he have been out fishing very recently; there were fish scales on his shirt and under his fingernails. And since there are no lakes in London to my knowledge, the man must have traveled here from the countryside. There were also slight traces of watered down blood on his sleeves. My guess was that he had found something far more interesting than fish in the water. Probably a body or something equally bizarre, or else he would not have come to me. I would lie if I did not confess myself intrigued. And, as pointed out before, I really needed a case. But instead of answering right away, I turned to Watson.

"Watson, I am aware I promised you there would be no gallivanting today but I'm afraid fate has other plans. This man seems to be in need of some unofficial support and I am inclined to accept his plead. Will you come with me?"

"Of course I will."

Of course he would. If I had asked him to follow me to China to battle an evil warlord Watson's only question would be when the train would depart. The man's thirst for adventure and his trust in me are ostensibly bottomless, a combination that will surely harm him in one way or another eventually. I would never place Watson in harm's way intentionally, I would rather take poison, but this does not keep me from inviting him to come with me on my cases despite the fact that I know they can be, and often are, treacherous. We have been in dire situations enough times for me to recognize how truly lucky we both have been over the years.

So why do I take Watson with me on my cases? The answer is simple.

I am a selfish man and I want him by my side, I cannot imagine working -or living for that matter- without him. I confess I don't know if it is my audacious profession that keeps Watson's appreciation of me intact but I am not willing to risk losing him if it is indeed so.

I turned to my client once again.

"Well then. Let's be off!"

Our new client had taken a cab of his own and after having told our own driver to follow the man's cab, I sat back down with Watson by my side.

Blissful silence reigned over the little space we shared. I love Watson for an infinite number of reasons and one of them is his grand gift of silence; when nothing needs to be said, he keeps silent. A very rare talent that I appreciate immeasurably, there are few things that I loathe more than mindless prattle. Another reason why I love him is his voice, ironically enough. It is an exquisite voice and if I had been in a poetic mood I would describe it as similar to the sound of waves; amazingly soothing and soft but always with a calm authority that tells of great strength and power lying just below the surface. I often let him read my correspondence out loud to me, as to give me an excuse to hear him speak. I am fully aware of how pitiable that sounds but that's life when you don't own your own heart.

We rode through London's busy streets; I didn't bother looking out the window since I knew exactly where we were anyway. I snatched my cigarette case from my pocket and took out two cigarettes, offering one to Watson who accepted. I made sure there was no contact this time. I was distracted enough already.

And apparently, I wasn't the only one who was distracted. Watson looked out the small window with distant eyes and the cigarette I had just given him was resting between his finely formed fingers, unlit.

"Is anything the matter?" I asked at length.

He looked up at me, a bit startled as if snapped out of a daze. He hesitated before answering me, which surprised me.

"No, nothing. Just that I would have liked to have gotten some more information about our client before rushing to his aid. He did not even give us a name."

"You never have a problem when I drag you out to places you have never been to before."

"No, but that is different, I trust you."

He was foolish to trust me but I would lie if said his faith didn't mean a great deal to me. A very great deal.

"Well, to put your mind at ease, I can tell you with certainty that our client is a Dane and has recently moved here. He lives on a large estate outside of London with his family. He does not have an occupation but he is highly educated. He is also a painter and a fisherman."

Watson smiled and tilted his head a little at me, an expression I had cataloged years ago and grown very fond of.

"And what trifling matters helped you form this theory? Apart from the fact that he was from the North, even I could pick up on that accent."

"The fact that he has recently moved here is evident from his clothing. They were plainly not manufactured here so they must be from his birthplace. The lad is still young, still growing. If he can still fit into his clothes from Denmark he can't have been here very long. Yet, he speaks very good English, and his attire is of the highest quality. Rich family then, and as any affluent family living outside of London the estate is sure to reflect the wealth. They most likely have a lake on the premises to but of that I cannot be certain. Regarding the unemployment and the man's hobbies, simplicity itself. The thin mark on his right index finger from the fishing line shows me that he uses his rod regularly. Also there were fish scales on his person when he came to us today. In addition, the small stains of acrylic paint points towards a painter as well. But that young man doesn't strike me as the type of fellow who could retain two extensive hobbies while also holding down any sort of occupation," I explained, relishing the expression on Watson's face as I did so.

"Remarkable, as always. Why do you think we have been called to his house then?"

"I have theories, but only that, nothing conclusive. I need facts, which I will hopefully receive when we reach our goal. In due time, I trust, all will be revealed."


End file.
